Drabbles from the London Fog
by Alosha135
Summary: My first ever drabble series - if I can remember where I stuffed my muse after the last time I wrote, anyway. I'm always happy to hear constructive criticism. R&R, but be nice! I don't know everything about SH and Co. but this is my tribute to them. T because I'm extremely paranoid and for some language/violence that might show up.
1. Chapter 1

The girl was so intent on the screen before her that she didn't even stir when a head poked round the doorframe and a pair of piercing gray eyes locked on her busily typing fingers.

Sherlock Holmes withdrew with a shudder, all his fears confirmed.

"It's as I thought, Watson," he said. "A new fanfictioner on the loose."


	2. Strange Fruit (1)

A/N: This is just for fun, because the idea has been bouncing around my head. Absolutely NO accuracy is intended, so please don't look for it! :P Thanks always for reading.

* * *

I found it on a walk around the more bizarre parts of London, where immigrants had settled and made their own small colonies out of our city. I had seen them once or twice on my travels, but never tried it - and on a whim, I bought one.

Now, carrying it back to Baker Street, the fruit felt even more out of place than when I had seen it - a badge of oddity. I had to quell the urge to hide the thing under my coat, so ridiculous did I feel. But this spiky, sharp-smelling, cylindrical fruit was my key to triumph. Finally, I would show Holmes something he had never seen before. With this in mind I hurried up the steps, barely stopping at Mrs. Hudson's hello, and planted the fruit firmly in the middle of the table.

There it sat, in all its peculiar glory, for 5 hours. I tried to read, but found myself constantly distracted by its presence. Then I paced, anxious with anticipation. Finally I admitted defeat and shut myself in my bedroom, away from the fruit and its out-of-place obscenity. I would not face that thing again until Holmes returned, I told myself, and that was final!


	3. Triumph (Strange Fruit 2)

A/N: I finally got my muse to stop throwing shoes at me whenever I approach, but sadly she is not interested in concentrating on fanfiction . Therefore, no promises. But readers and *especially* reviewers always help :)

* * *

I put down my book when I heard the door open around 5 o'clock. My attempts at distraction had been successful, and I had all but forgotten my morning purchase. That is, until I entered the sitting room to find Holmes staring at it in fascination.

"My word, Watson," he said. "What on earth is this curiousity?"

"I'm not entirely sure," I replied. "Shall we?" and I lifted my knife to carefully cut away the abrasive peel. Inside, the fruit was bright yellow and released a tangy scent that set my tastebuds tingling. I sliced two bites and offered one to Holmes.

"On three, old boy. One . . . two . . . " We each bit into our section. I barely registered the sweet, acidic taste; I was too busy watching Holmes's astonished reaction as his eyebrows first furrowed, then arched, and his eyes brightened with surprise and pleasure.

"Not bad, is it?" I said, thoroughly satisfied in my mission. "I believe they call it . . . pineapple."

* * *

Yes, folks, I did just write a two-part drabble about pineapples. What can I say? They're magical ^_^


	4. Unhealthy

Holmes sniffed curiously at a creamy dark liquid, which gave off a strong scent of coffee. Scattered around the cup were several chocolate peanut butter cups, a mostly uneaten container of yogurt, and two tea bags.

"I find it hard to believe anyone lives like this," said his companion. "Do you have any idea how unhealthy this is? Even YOU, Holmes, aren't quite this bad."

The detective was busy peering at the sleeping fanfictioner, who was flopped over the couch cushions with one hand still resting on the keyboard. The dark circles beneath her eyes betrayed an irregular sleep schedule - and provided an explanation for the impromptu nap at 3 in the afternoon.

"You never know with this lot," he remarked. "I wonder if there's a correlation between insanity and excessive caffeine and sugar consumption . . . "

Watson just shook his head and covered the aspiring authoress with a blanket.

"Best let her sleep. This might be our last chance to relax before she gets . . . _inspired_ . . . again."


	5. Jenna

The Baker Street Irregulars were made up of all kinds from all places - orphans, runaways, children of the gutter who had never known a better home than the streets. Some were close to grown, others not older than seven or eight. So it was really no wonder that eventually, one of them was a girl.

Her name was Jenna - or at least, that's how Wiggins introduced her when he and a companion pulled her near-dead weight up the steps of 221B Baker Street. She was a thin, tiny thing, no better fed than any urchin and as invisible as they all were to London's masses. She was dressed in rags, albeit rags that vaguely resembled a dress. There were freckles on her hollow cheeks and someone had made an attempt to braid her tangled brown hair. When the Irregulars brought her to the doctor she was shaking with cold, half delirious with fever, and desperately confused by the strange circumstances that had brought her to this safehaven of medical care and adequate food.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips at the ragged visitors, Holmes raised an eyebrow, but Dr. Watson just laid the child on the settee and wrapped her small frame in blankets. Wiggins told him the story of how they had met: the girl had wandered into "their territory," as he proudly referred to it, several nights ago. She was obviously exhausted but seemed to have nothing more serious than a cold until she began tossing about calling for people that weren't there. That was when they decided on taking her to Baker Street. A friend of one Irregular said her name was Jenna; he had seen her around once or twice, but knew nothing about her.

The good doctor sat with 'Jenna' when she kicked and screamed for places far away and people unknown, and put cool compresses on her hot little brow when she thrashed about and threw her covers to the floor. When she woke she was fed broth and crackers, and sometimes the kind gentleman would read to her until she fell into restless slumber. Jenna lay in Baker Street for three days, faithfully attended by her miniature guards and, of course, by Watson himself. On the third day her fever broke and she was deemed well enough to get up and move about. Still, Watson insisted she stay for another week until her strength was entirely recovered. Maybe it was his firm tone of voice, or maybe it was the soft look in his eye, but no one disagreed.

Jenna did leave eventually. She was taken in by the band of Holmes's tatterdemalions, and with her hair tucked into a cap she was soon indistinguishable from the rest of them. But Watson never forgot their strange meeting or the things she had said in her fever. And Jenna never forgot the doctor's kindness when she was ill.


	6. Hypomania

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson!" Alosha sped into the room, trailing a wake of dropped papers and one or two pens. "I need your advice. Alright, so let's say there was this girl and she was sick and she's _probably_ sick because someone's poisoning her because her sister had this affair with a guy and the guy turned out to be a _bad_ guy but her sister didn't know that and anyway the sister's dead. Point is, she's dying and she doesn't really care that she's dying but her doctor does I mean he is a doctor right and so _he _wants to help her but I have no idea how he ought to go about it help!"

Dr. Watson had set down his paper at the beginning of this bemusing tirade and now examined the restless writer with thoughtful eyes. "I say, Holmes. She's behaving rather as you do when a case is at hand."

Alosha wailed. "Dr. _Watson_! I need your help! I mean, what am I going to do with this? - " she waved a bundle of papers that presumably contained the story in question. "I can't just _leave _it."

The doctor caught her arm mid-gesture and felt for her pulse. "Hmm . . . rapid . . . No doubt because of all the coffee you've been drinking." He frowned disapprovingly at the half-empty thermos by the fire. "Eyes wide, cheeks flushed . . . The similarities really are remarkable, Holmes."

"I beg your pardon," said the detective indignantly. "My excitement over a case is in no way comparable to this ridiculous state of hypomania!"

The author gave up and flopped into a chair where she twitched and drummed her fingers restlessly, staring at her unfinished work with consummate intensity.

"I think a bit of calming chamomile tea might be in order" murmured the doctor.

* * *

**Hypomania - a bipolar state of mild or partial mania**

**There are a lot of theories out there concerning whether or not Holmes was bipolar. Speaking from personal experience, I'd say it's pretty likely. Sorry to keep sticking myself in these drabbles, I just find them very easy to write and there are SO many things to inspire them it's hard to resist.**

**Read and review my lovelies! 3 Also, special thanks and gingerbread to peaceandlove23 for being fabulous to review not once but TWICE! :D**


	7. Cough

**I'm bored but I couldn't quite catch a proper plot bunny, so have this instead. Based on one of my prompts for the December challenge by Hades Lord of the Dead. Kudos if you ever figure out what the prompt was :P**

* * *

A muted noise sounded behind him as he and Holmes crouched in the underbrush. It was a raspy, painful sound that set his doctor's instincts on edge.

"Holmes?" he whispered.

"I'm alright," came the reply.

Two minutes later the detective coughed again, this time not quite managing to stifle it in his hand.

"Are you quite sure you're alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Oh! There he goes!" The suspect darted out of the house and in an instant the pair were in pursuit, cough forgotten. At least, forgotten until they stopped, panting and triumphant, the miscreant caught between them.

"It was really quite simple, Lestr - " Holmes broke into a fit that left him wheezing and breathless for several minutes.

"That's it, Holmes," announced Watson. "You're laying off the tobacco until this goes away."


	8. Experiment (1)

Watson was a long-suffering flatmate. He put up with all sorts of odd hours, violin music at ungodly times, half-finished meals, and Holmes's penchant for the dramatic. Altogether, the chemical experiments weren't the worst he had to deal with. Besides, they kept Holmes occupied. So when the detective began fiddling with his beakers and burners late one afternoon the doctor thought nothing of it. In fact, he settled down with a book and looked forward to a few hours of peace and quiet in the flat.

He was just getting wrapped up in the intrigues of Poe when there was a slight _pop_ from the direction of Holmes's tinkering. He was aware of a wave of heat and noxious fumes, and then everything was upside down and black as pitch. Something heavy pinned his leg. It was hard to breathe, hard to speak. He only had one thought: _Holmes._

* * *

**Well that was appallingly short. Sorry chaps and chapesses. This will probably end up in a story arc, if I'm not too lazy. (Reviews are great motivation. Hint, hint)**


	9. Celebrity

**Because I'm evil, and uninspired, and this had to be written. Besides, who wouldn't want Watson? (good lord, that's a lot of w's) **

**Anyway, ****this has nothing to do with Holmes's exploding experiments. **Please don't kill me *ducks behind chair*

* * *

It's hard to be a celebrity. Watson hadn't set out to become one when he first started publishing his little anecdotes, but he was hardly displeased when the first letters of admiration started coming in. Every writer is secretly a little vain, and the praise made a nice contrast to Holmes's stinging comments. If most of the letters seemed to be from young women, and more than a few of them happened to be interested in his marital status, what could be the harm?

Certainly, Holmes started to tease him about his "way with the ladies" - especially after that incident with the girl at the train station (he blushed to remember it). And alright, so once or twice he got a proposal or an envelope sealed with a lipstick kiss. There were always those who took it a little bit too far.

Stares, whispers, and giggles were disconcerting, but not exactly the stuff of nightmare.

The hordes of cheering girls who turned up every year on his birthday were a _tad_ much. But it was nice to be appreciated, at least.

Fortunately, he was married to a very patient woman. Mary never said a word about the stacks of ink-inscribed adoration she picked up off the stoop each morning.


	10. Experiment (2)

**A/N: Once again, thanks and cookies to peaceandlove23 for reviewing every single chapter O.o I love you, m'dear. I'm still horribly under-motivated, but that story arc REALLY needs to get finished so here we are.**

* * *

A cough sounded from somewhere in the direction of the crash.

"Holmes?" Watson called, stifling a cough himself. The air was full of debris and it took nearly all his concentration not to choke. "Holmes, are you alright?"

"Fine, Watson. You?" came the muffled reply. There came the sound of glass shards crunching and something - the table? - being shifted. A tall, soot-covered figure rose up from the floor. Holmes frowned in dismay at the wreckage and began shuffling through smashed chemistry apparatus towards Watson's voice.

"I'm - aagh!" The sharp exclamation was more reply than Holmes had needed. Disregarding his bruises the detective shoved chairs out of the way and kicked rugs and fallen decor aside to reach the doctor. He seemed to be pinned under the settee, one leg stretched out at an awkward angle. "It's not bad," Watson wheezed as he struggled to push himself upright. "Just - my bad leg - "

Holmes ignored his protestations and lifted the settee, then lifted his flatmate and laid him as best he could on the righted piece of furniture. Watson made no sound (after all, he was a soldier) but the tight set of his jaw left Holmes in no doubt as to the pain he was in.

"Steady, old chap. We'll get you fixed up," he promised.

* * *

**Should be just one more installment . . . **


	11. Experiment (3)

**My stories have gotten over 200 views, and most of them for this series! Now I don't know if that means you people like them, or if it just means there's one person out there clicking the 'Refresh' button like it's their job, but thank you! Here's an update ^_^**

* * *

Two days later the sitting room still looked like a wounded bear had charged through wielding a flamethrower. There were still bits of glass on the floor and at least one chair was lopsided due to an injured leg or three.

Chairs weren't the only things with wounded limbs. Watson had made a show of ignoring his injury, but the throbbing pain and Holmes's insistence soon had him back on the couch. Occasionally he got up and hobbled around the flat as if he had something to do, but cleaning did not mix well with a limp and Mrs. Hudson was looking after his every possible need. She had made enough cups of tea to quench the thirst of an army. Every time he woke there was shortbread, or sandwiches, or soup. He was beginning to think she liked having an invalid about the place.

Surprisingly, however, it wasn't Mrs. Hudson making the biggest fuss. It was Holmes. Watson had never seen his flatmate so attentive, so compassionate - or so repentant. He played Watson's favorite songs on the violin, sat quietly in his chair and did not fuss about, and he refused to go anywhere near the chemistry set. In the end it was Watson himself, with some help from the obliging landlady, who cleared up the last of the spilled chemicals and broken bits of equipment. He was not upset with Holmes for his role in this disaster - in fact, once the pain went away he found the whole thing rather amusing. Of course, he didn't feel it necessary to make Holmes aware of this fact.

Dr. Watson was rewarded for his silence with two straight months experiment-free.


	12. Mrs Hudson's Boy

**A/N: I've always sort of wondered about Mrs. Hudson. She doesn't have much of a backstory, and really she's rather taken for granted by most everyone. So here's a little something for our favorite landlady. From the point of view of Lestrade, just to change things up a bit.**

* * *

I was dismayed to learn Mrs. Hudson had a son. In fact, I was dismayed to learn this person existed at all, but it seemed especially cruel that he should have a special place in the heart of such a gentle woman.

But, I am an Inspector of Scotland Yard, and I had no choice but to follow the law. I was only grateful that I was saved from breaking the news: when I arrived Mrs. Hudson was sitting in the kitchen, fingering a photograph. There were tears in her eyes.

"I knew it," she said. "I knew it the day he turned up here. But what could I do, Inspector? He's my boy. He's my boy . . . "

I patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, and left. Whatever Charlie Hudson was guilty of, his worst crime by far was breaking the heart of his own dear mother.


	13. Don't Jump

**You can make of this what you will. Apparently I'm just very angsty today. Thank you to my reviewers, and remember - the more the merrier! :P**

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The falls at Reichenbach sounded just as they had that fateful, horrible day - like a giant's roar or the voices of ten thousand shouting people. Everything was precisely as I remembered it - the spray that doused the slippery gray rocks, the moss that clung against all odds to the sides of the falls, the rocky lip that overlooked a long and deadly fall. I had not meant for it to be . . . like this. Truthfully, I didn't know what I had intended. In part I wanted to pay my respects to the man whom I loved and respected. In part I needed to see this dreaded place for myself, one more time. And perhaps, in part . . .

I stepped closer to the edge and looked over, heart beating fast. It would be a good way to end. Poetic, even. To go after him, even unto death; to follow my dearest friend into Fate's very hands. Rocks slipped under my boots and I caught my breath, half sure I would slide down into the water's gaping maw. But I did not, and a part of me was disappointed.

As a soldier, I feared neither pain nor death. I should have felt guilty, perhaps been afraid of what would await me after I died. Yet I could not help but think that even an unmerciful god would have to look kindly on this death. There could be nothing more noble than rejoining a friend.

My body was poised on the brink but my mind was far away. I thought of all the times I had spent with Holmes, all I knew of him. And as hard as it was to face, I knew most of all that he would not want me to do this.

He would not want me to jump.


	14. The Worst Tenants in London

**I feel bad because someone called 'Anonymous' has given me some lovely reviews and I can't thank them personally. Whoever you are, I appreciate it :) Here's some more about the mystery landlady.**

* * *

"Holmes?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you think Mrs. Hudson puts up with us?"

"I imagine she does it because she's fond of us, Watson. Women are naturally sentimental."

"I very much doubt that any amount of fondness would excuse the bullet holes in her wallpaper or the chemical stains on her floor. Besides, she could hardly be fond of us when we first moved in."

"Perhaps you're right . . . But why the sudden curiosity?"

"I just think it's odd. We really know nothing about her. I've never even heard anyone refer to her by her first name. She has no visitors, and for all intents and purposes never leaves Baker Street. And, she's perfectly willing to live with two of the very worst tenants in London!"

"You're becoming more of a detective by the day, Watson. Though why you see fit to direct your attentions to our landlady I cannot fathom. Perhaps your skills would be better put to use on one of the criminal class. Have a look at this telegram . . . "

* * *

**Why *does* Mrs. Hudson put up with them? Does Holmes know, or is he avoiding the question because he doesn't find it interesting? I'm thinking of writing a story or two about Mrs. Hudson's past (and possibly expanding on that drabble about her wayward son . . . ) Any recommendations, unwanted bunnies (especially the literal kind ^_^), and thoughts are welcome!**


	15. You Are The Limit

**This one is for peaceandlove23, who suggested the prompt: Holmes and Watson argue about the difference between Holmes's love for drama and Watson's 'romanticism'. Hop in your time machines, folks.**

* * *

Holmes has often criticized my writing. He lays on me claims of exaggeration and blatant romanticism, accuses me of ruining what could be instructive material, and generally disapproves of my little tales in general. In his mind,

"Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story... Some facts should be suppressed, or, at least, a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes, by which I succeeded in unravelling it."*

Perhaps this is true; it is part of a story-teller's art to create interest. I would argue that our cases have no need of exaggeration or romanticism, and only appear such to Holmes because he would prefer a series of lectures. But, I have learned to put up with his criticism. The popularity of my stories is more than enough to satisfy me. It was not, therefore, his comments which drove us to argument on a rainy Tuesday morning. Rather I took issue with his hypocrisy. I was sitting comfortably by the fire, reading over my notes and contemplating which I should next commit to paper. He was reading the latest edition of The Strand, which contained an account of our exploits as it usually did.

"Really, Watson!" he exclaimed after perusing for a few moments. "You handle facts as if they were malleable as clay. You alter perceptions, focus altogether too much on the irrelevant . . . I cannot fathom that your readers tolerate it."

"The public enjoys my stories because they are mysteries, Holmes," I replied patiently. "No one would read them if I laid out the facts in the cold, logical manner with which you treat them."

"Ha!" he crowed. "So you admit to some romanticism! No, doctor, you would do best to stop this tomfoolery. If you insist on writing about our little adventures, do not do them the injustice of dramatization."

This, I determined, was really too far. "Dramatization?" I cried. "You are one to talk. What about case of the Naval Treaty? You startled poor Percy Phelps half to death! Or the Dying Detective? - no, don't object, you were as theatrical as any actor on the stage! And what about the adventure of the Dancing Men? You might easily have sent the police to Abe Slaney's door, but instead you chose to write him a note in the very same code he himself used. You cannot tell me that these are not examples of dramatization!"

Holmes sniffed. "I, Watson, operate on a purely logical basis. If I confess a slight tendency toward the theatrical, it can only be said to enhance the interest of the case."

"Which is precisely what I have done!" I ejaculated. "You are the limit, Holmes."

We did not speak the rest of the day, but I did notice that when the next Strand came out Holmes made not a single comment.

* * *

***quote from Study in Scarlet**


	16. Desperate

**I'm having a go at the second prompt table on Watson's Woes. (Sorry Watson. It's not MY fault you're so fun to torture.) I won't deny that this was also slightly inspired by Ripper Street, a wonderful TV show available on Netflix. There will probably be a story arc of some kind, as well as a little bit of humor and a healthy dose of Holmes looking at me like what-have-you-done-now. ^_^ Ideas, requests for expansion or continuation, and REVIEWS are always accepted.**

1. Desperate

* * *

Inspector Lestrade had arrived at 221B Baker Street in many states of mind. He had been frustrated, self-satisfied, confused, and angry, but this was the first time in recollection that he had been downright desperate.

What else could he be? Simon Cranner, infamous leader of a gang of underage ruffians, was becoming bolder and bolder. Recently three of his boys had beaten the owner of a tavern to death in a drunken brawl. When Lestrade sent a constable to Cranner to investigate he returned black and blue. Everyone knew the man was a scoundrel, but finding the evidence to convict him of murder was all but impossible. His boys did most of the dirty work. His orders were never written down (in fact, Simon Cranner never wrote anything down, though it meant a beating to suggest he couldn't). Worst of all, he had a whole gang to swear an alibi for those called out on their crimes. If there was a hole in his carefully built protections, it was not for Lestrade to find it.

Holmes only nodded solemnly as the inspector presented his case. Too many of his Irregulars had been barely rescued from the gang life for him to smile and poke fun at the police this time. No one could deny that London was a rough place, but that it touched even the innocence of children appalled even rigid Justice. So it was with trepidation that Holmes summoned Wiggins and asked the boy for what might be the greatest favor he had ever required.


	17. Angry

2. Angry

* * *

"A bleedin' murd'rer, and 'e just walks around proud as a peacock wivout a care in the world?!" Wiggins indignation was loud and vocal. Even Mrs. Hudson managed a smile.

"Wiggins, I want you to understand: this is a very dangerous job. This man and his gang have killed people. They will not hesitate to kill you, too, if you are caught."

"Not to worry, gov. 'e wouldn't s'pect us. All us urchins are the same, 'cordin to the big folks. We'll slip in 'n catch 'im out faster than you can say 'copper penny,' you'll see!"

Holmes chuckled, but the furrows of his brow betrayed deep unease. When Wiggins snapped a salute and dashed off to give the news to his cohorts the detective lowered himself into a chair with a weary sigh.

"I fear for them, Watson. I fear for all of them. They are too young to live in this world unprotected."

"Then we must see they are not unprotected," the doctor replied. "If harm comes to any of them . . . " He did not have to finish the threat. There would be no mercy for a man who dared lay a hand on one of the Baker Street Irregulars.


	18. Exhausted

3. Exhausted

**This has nothing to do with the last 2, although I promise a continuation is on its way.**

* * *

"You _must_ sleep."

"Mmhhf . . . no . . . case isn't finished."

"This is absurd. A grown man cannot go four days without sleep and expect that he will do his best work!"

"I'm not sleeping . . . not until you do."

"Oh, for heavens sake. Watson, I thought we had established that my habits work very well for me and should not under any circumstances be copied by anyone else!"

"S'been _four days _Holmes. Just sleep . . . already . . . " Watson's head fell forward and he narrowly avoided faceplanting into the table. Fortunately Holmes was there to catch him.

The detective sighed crossly. "You cannot honestly think that these ridiculous tactics will somehow induce me to better my lifestyle. Watson, you're practically unconscious, please sleep."

However, his trusty Boswell was nothing if not stubborn. He kept his eyes open for another three hours - a period which was marked by an ever-increasing number of mishaps and accidents. By the time Holmes had delivered his evidence to Scotland Yard and seen the crook, a particularly nasty thief, behind bars, Watson was all but comatose. He made a muffled grunt when Holmes delivered him unceremoniously from the cab, but made no objection to his help up the stairs and onto the settee. Holmes covered him, still upright, in a blanket; a few moments later the doctor was fast asleep.

There were a few things he ought to get sorted out, and notes to be added to his files about certain criminal persons . . . One look at the comfortably slumbering doctor was enough to make up Holmes's mind. In a matter of minutes he had joined his flatmate on the settee and neither of them woke until Mrs. Hudson brought them breakfast in the morning.


	19. Uneasy

**Continuation of the story arc!**

4. Uneasy

* * *

Watson lay awake, staring at the ceiling. For once it was not Holmes's escapades that kept him awake, but those of his small lieutenant. It was only Holmes's strict instructions that stopped Wiggins taking the job himself. The sleuth seemed to think that the boy might be identified. Instead Wiggins had sent (reluctantly, and with much protestation) one of the many faceless members of his little gang. And now . . . There had been no report for two days. Although Wiggins assured them that this was normal, Watson could not stifle his pressing unease. It weighed on his mind and his chest like a sack of bricks, its mass pushing all other thoughts out of his head. What if something had happened? What if was hurt, or trapped? What horrors had he seen in those few short days, and how would he forget them once this job was over?

With a groan the doctor rolled over, shoving his face into the pillow. They were raised on the street, he reminded himself. They are not coddled or shielded.

Even so he couldn't help but hope news came soon. He was half tempted to do a little investigating himself, and only the knowledge that he might blow their 'agent's cover kept him away from the dank saloons of the East End where Simon Cranner spent his time. He knew he was not alone; Holmes had paced all that evening. Once or twice he had even suggested the case would be better handled by him alone, but then he shook his head and muttered to himself about evidence and witnesses.

Worry upon worry wasted itself in the silence, a mind hard at work churning out useless speculations. Though restless darkness settled itself around Baker Street, Watson did not sleep until the first dawn light painted the windows gold.


	20. Alone 1

5. Alone

**There are actually going to be two drabbles for this prompt, because I need it for the story arc but also angst is fun. *innocent face***

* * *

The next afternoon, which the two occupants of 221B Baker Street had spent alone in their respective restlessness, a messenger finally arrived.

It was not the kind of message the two would have liked.

Wiggins's boy was a scrawny boy of perhaps ten, with big brown eyes and a mop of reddish-brown hair. He was introduced as Jerry. At the time, neither his name nor his appearance registered; his listeners were far too occupied with the story he had to tell.

"Oi tried to get close to 'em, Misser 'olmes. Weren't too tough - they was lookin' for new recruits. Weren't hard to get evidence, neither. Cranner bloke was handin' out orders like they was alms on Sunday, 'e was. Oi figgered oi'd stay a few days, see if Oi couldn't get some of 'is lads to talk 'bout the job they did on the barkeep. But - " here he glanced at Wiggins with apology in his voice - "they made us. Don't know 'ow, Oi was careful, Oi swear! Oi made a run fr'it an' they didn't catch up."

"We're very glad you're alright," Dr. Watson assured the boy. Holmes said nothing; he was staring at Jerry with intensity.

"You said 'us'. Were you not alone?"

Jerry looked uncomfortable and shuffled his feet. It was Wiggins who answered, clearing his throat awkwardly before beginning. "We sent Jenna, Mr. 'olmes. We f'ought, she's got a good eye, an' she's plenty quick on 'er feet. 'Oped she might come in useful to Jerry 'ere. I never thought she'd get in any trouble, 'onest!"

Dr. Watson stiffened, and Holmes was tense as a greyhound ready to run.

"Where is Jenna now?" he demanded tightly.

"They've got 'er, Misser 'olmes. Oi couldn't get 'er, there were too many . . . Oi couldn't do anyfing but run." Jerry hung his head, ashamed although he could have done nothing else.

"Watson. Your gun. This has gone quite far enough."

* * *

**PLOT TWIST! Jenna's in trouble! ****Mwahahahaha! Next installment coming soon, I promise.**


	21. Bleeding Part 1

6. Bleeding (Part 1)

* * *

The cab ride was dead silent and interminable. Simon Cranner was at the end of it, yes, and justice would be served. Justice was not Dr. Watson's concern, though; Jenna was. For her, all the justice in the world might come too late. The thought was unbearable. Rather than torment himself with it, the doctor focused on the comforting sound of the police wagon rattling along behind them, and the forbidding face of his companion.

After an eternity the cab jolted to a stop. They were in the worst part of east London, with dilapidated buildings and people alike on all sides. Holmes disembarked first, quickly followed by his Boswell and half a dozen of London's finest. The constables arranged themselves before the door and, at a signal from Lestrade, burst through it with shouts of "Police!" and "Put your hands on your heads!"

A useless command. The seedy establishment contained some twenty boys, ranging in age from perhaps eleven to eighteen. The lot of them threw themselves into the fray with yells of surprise and anger. A few were immediately laid low by blows from police nightsticks, but the bravest were not cowed until Watson fired a shot into the air with his revolver.

It was all over in a few minutes. The underaged ruffians were hustled into police custody with many curses and empty threats. But one member of the gang was conspicuously missing.

"Where's Cranner?"

Just then there was a crash of breaking glass from the back of the building. As one, Holmes and Watson rushed towards the sound. An enraged sleuth caught hold of Simon Cranner just as he was about to lever himself out the window and escape into the night. Suddenly the gang leader was faced with a mustached man practically bristling with righteous anger, and a cold-faced companion with murder in his eyes.

"What have you done with her?" demanded the latter.

Cranner attempted a sneer. "Done wot wiv 'oo? Ain't no females in this 'ouse."

Further questioning was halted when Watson's fist collided with the man's skull, sending him slumping over his own desk unconscious.

* * *

**Still no Jenna! Muahaha, torturing you guys is fun. All will be resolved soon . . . **


	22. Bleeding Part 2

6. Bleeding (Part 2)

**I've been busy with other stories so updates might become less frequent :/ Who knows.**

* * *

Simon Cranner, when he came to, was no more helpful than he had been in the first place. Eventually, a great deal of threatening and physical abuse later, he revealed that Jenna had indeed been caught. But nothing could induce him to say where she was or what had been done to her. He made only the vaguest allusions to her treatment - allusions that were more than enough to get his captors' blood boiling, but gave them little to work with.

"Bled loike a stuck pig, she did," he chuckled once. Watson's patience finally snapped.

"Enough! This - _creature_ is hardly going to give away her whereabouts. We must look for her ourselves."

A brief search had been made of Cranner's hideaway. Everyone had been busy with the arrests and had little interest in loitering about the ill-smelling place, so it could not be said that the search was thorough. Now, returning, Watson thought that very little seemed to have changed. There were still tables and broken bottles on the floor, chairs tipped backwards. In the leader's "office" a few papers were scattered about and several cheap trinkets perched on the desk. Holmes was more observant. He pointed to a cabinet hiding in the far corner, a badly lit and cobwebbed place.

"It's cracked," he murmured. "It was closed before."

Dr. Watson gave a quick nod and moved slowly towards the cabinet, careful not to make any startling sounds or motions. The door swung open creakily. At first it seemed to be empty. Then his gaze fell on a tiny huddled shape pressed against the cheap boards. Jenna stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Dirt smudged her cheek but she did not look too much worse for wear. The doctor extended his arms, lifting the child up and into the safety of a thankful embrace.

* * *

**Yay! They found Jenna! I thought this was going to be the end of this arc, but it turns out there's one more chapter asking to be written. More coming in a moment, darlings.**


	23. What Happened

6. What Happened (continuation of Bleeding)

* * *

Later, Jenna sat quietly on an armchair in Baker Street. She nursed the tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought her while the doctor tended to a badly skinned knee - fortunately, it the worst of her injuries. As he put one final stitch in the gash and wrapped the limb in clean cotton bandages, Holmes crouched down next to the girl.

"Jenna, I want you to tell me: what happened?"

The urchin examined him with curious eyes. "Jerry scrammed," she announced calmly. "He had to. Went to fetch you, I think."

"What about after that? Why were you in the cabinet?"

"I was hiding," she explained solemnly. "Wiggins said to, if I got scared. He said they were bad people and they might try to hurt me."

"Did they, Jenna?"

"No. Only my knee. I got that when I fell down. I was running away," she added by way of elaboration. "They were chasing me, after Jerry left. I didn't have time to find a better hiding place, so I went in the cabinet. I thought they would find me. But they never looked." Jenna shrugged. "They must have thought I found a better hiding spot after all."

Holmes smoothed her hair in a rare show of affection. "You did very well. Why don't you sleep here for the night and you can go back with Wiggins in the morning.

That was exactly what she did. When Wiggins saw her safe and sound the next day he embraced her for a solid two minutes while Jenna patted his shoulder in the sweet, childish way she had.

Neither of Baker Street's residents felt the need to lecture Wiggins on his thoughtlessness. It was obvious he would never let it happen again.


	24. Alone 2

5. Alone (2)

**Hello loves, sorry I've been gone. This is the other drabble I was going to write for the prompt 'alone'.**

* * *

Life was lonely without his Boswell. Horribly lonely. He thought he knew isolation when Watson had married and moved out, but he was wrong. He knew nothing of the long hours filled only with his own thoughts, the boredom unrelieved by pleasant company, and worst of all, the unstable sense of having no one to call on in difficulty or grief.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man to waste his time on emotion. It was not in his nature. After the fall, when he wasn't busying himself with the tidying up of Moriarty's criminal empire, he amused himself with exploits and adventures under the name Sigerson. His explorations did not give him half the pleasure that his cases once had, but they filled the void. He never forgot - of course he didn't; yet somehow he managed to push the memories to the back of his brain. They ceased to occupy his every waking moment. Homesickness faded, slowly but surely.

But when the news came that Watson had a son, everything came back. His faithful chronicler, his best friend, had a life. A family. A future that did not contain Holmes, did not involve late nights of violin playing or dashing about in all weather after the worst of the criminal crop.

Holmes had never felt so alone.


	25. Dark (Part 1)

9. Dark (yes I skipped a few. I'll get to them)

**I've been going through a rough patch and it's been hard to write. I don't know how often I'll be updating, but every review I get gives me motivation :)**

* * *

When Holmes was on a case life seemed vibrant, full of movement and interest. The cases drove, inspired, and sustained him. They were as necessary to my friend as air to breathe and water to drink. So it was for obvious reasons that I dreaded the time when no case presented itself and nothing of the slightest interest appeared to amuse him. These were dark times. He turned to his cocaine, to isolation, to the black moods that seemed to seize him in their wretched grip and never, ever let him go. I knew of these black moods. When I had returned from Afghanistan I was miserable and nothing could give me pleasure. It was remedied by my introduction to the very man over whom I now worry. But no such solace was offered to him. The moods came on as fast as thunderclouds, only dissipating when he needed to shine light on another obscure mystery. It was all I could do to keep him alive and sane in the intervals.

My marriage significantly detracted from the time I spent at Baker Street, but I tried to visit - especially when I found out that Holmes's latest case had been brought to a successful resolution and he was once again in the grips of boredom. I could but watch as he slipped slowly down the slope that he had traversed so many times before. First he stopped eating, and only sat in his armchair with his pipe as companion. Then the morocco case appeared, with its syringe of relief and destruction. At last he stopped - everything. I could tell from the bags under my dear friend's eyes that he did not sleep. Mrs. Hudson swore that she brought him his meals as usual, but they went untouched. More often than not I found Holmes in bed or curled up on the settee, lacking even the energy to rise. I had seen this sort of melancholy before. I knew where it too often led. So I excused myself from my home and wife for a few days, and came to stay in the flat that had once been my living quarters.

Holmes did not acknowledge my arrival, nor did he comment upon the bag I had brought with me. He did not move a muscle as I sat myself in my regular place and studied him carefully. That he was in ill health was obvious, though I was sure it was caused by his own neglect and not any physical malady. He was even more gaunt than usual, and over the thin keen face his hair fell uncombed and mussed as if he had been running his hands through it. My heart grieved to see a great man brought to this, and I feared now that I would not be able to restore him.


	26. Dark (Part 2)

8. Helpless (cont. of Dark)

* * *

Dinner was served by an anxious Mrs. Hudson, who cast glances at her invalid tenant as she laid the meal out. I brought Holmes's food over to him and sat down, utterly determined to make him eat.

"Holmes," I said. "Holmes, Mrs. Hudson has prepared a wonderful dinner. _Holmes_."

His eyes flickered towards me but he made no response. I tried a different tack.

"This isn't healthy, Holmes. You will destroy yourself. You can hardly solve the world's mysteries if you're a skeleton, old boy. The brain needs fuel, remember." No luck. Holmes merely raised his shoulders in a minute gesture that might have been a shrug. "You know how you are, Holmes," I persisted. "These moods come on you. You must fight them. It is unacceptable that you should - should self-destruct like this!"

Cajole, plead, and coerce as I might, Holmes did not dine that evening. I had known this would be a difficult task, but already my spirits had sunk. Holmes did not have time, for the sake of his own health, for me to waste in futile attempts. I did not know what else to do, except pray that he would come around eventually. Rather than attempt to engage him (for he was staring into the fire and seemed quite oblivious to me) I settled myself with a book and waited.

At ten o'clock Holmes was curled in his armchair with eyes closed. I shut my book and went into the room that used to be mine - Mrs. Hudson had made it up for me. I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard a cry and rushed to the sitting room. It was evident that it was Holmes who had cried out. He was grappling imaginary monsters, breathing ragged and eyes wide. Before I could cross the room to him he had reached for his cocaine. As the deadly serum flowed into his veins he relaxed visibly and slumped back into his chair. His breathing slowed and his sharp grey eyes slid closed. I could only stand there, desperately wishing there was more that could be done.

Just as I thought Holmes had drifted into sleep, he spoke: "You should not have come, Watson," my friend murmured. "This is not . . . how I want you to remember me."

And my heart went cold as ice.


	27. Dark (3)

8. Helpless (moar!)

* * *

I was glued to my friend's side for the next two days. Each moment was filled with a gnawing, endless worry of what might become of him. When he railed against people I had never heard of, battled unseen enemies in his restless sleep, lay unseeing on the settee as his mind turned over and over - I was there for him. I talked endlessly. I told him about stories in the newspapers and reminisced about our adventures, hoping their recollection would remind him of what he had to live for. But for all my chatter he was dead to me, and the world. When he reached for his syringe I saw the only flicker of emotion - a sort of desperate craving in his eyes, not for the drug itself but for release from the pain. Time and again the needle slid into his pale, sinewy arm. Each time I was overcome by a feeling of such agonizing helplessness it was all I could do not to run from the room. But I did not run. I stayed with him, feeding him broth when he deigned to accept, holding his hands in mine as if I could somehow squeeze life back into them through sheer willpower. In a strange, sick way I was reliant on the cocaine too. Much as I hated it, it seemed to help Holmes. It tortured me to think that a drug could triumph where I had failed, but this was not the time for petty jealousy.

Despite my best efforts, Holmes grew worse. At times my presence seemed to aid him; his keen grey eyes focused and he spoke weakly but pleasantly for brief times. At the end of them, though, he would lapse into silence. The silence would return, and with it all my fears.

On the third day Holmes was no better, but he did not seem unstable and I had matters to attend to outside of Baker Street. I left him in the morning, sleeping, with instructions to Mrs. Hudson on his care. She knew as well as I that the detective was unlikely to accept the help; we could only try. With a heavy heart and a churning mind I left Baker Street and set off to see to my other duties. I had several patients who urgently needed to see me, and my wife would be cross with my absence. If I hurried through my appointments I can only hope my clients can forgive me; my friend's condition never left my thoughts although he was out of my sight. I fear that my dear Mary felt my distraction too. I made every attempt to be attentive, but she soon shooed my back to Holmes's side.

Mrs. Hudson reported that her wayward tenant had not exhibited any change. This somewhat backward encouragement in mind I advanced up the stairs and knocked on the door. There was no reply so I stepped inside the flat. There was no sign of Holmes in the sitting room. I was just going to my room to fetch a book when he emerged from his room - unkempt and wild-looking with a vague manic look in his eye.

"Oh, Watson. You're back. I've found the most interesting method of amusement."


	28. Dark (4)

cont. of Dark/Helpless (no particular prompt for this one)

WARNING: references to self-harm. In a way?

* * *

Something in those eyes told me that this amusement would not be to my liking. I opened my mouth to inquire what, exactly, he had been up to - and then my eyes traveled down the whip-thin figure to the sleeves of his ragged dressing gown. They were pushed up, revealing arms that were all tendon and muscle. Except that now they were swollen, discoloured, with needle marks that oozed blood and worse and long cuts that looked as if they had been cauterized with acid. I took a step forward, stopped, struggled to gather my thoughts and my professionalism.

"Holmes," I said carefully. Hard as a tried I fear that my voice wavered. "What exactly is this . . . amusement?"

"I've been experimenting," he explained brightly. Too brightly. His fingers twitched restlessly and he did not seem able to look me in the eye. "Chemicals, you know, effects . . . Wanted to know what would happen to the body . . . " he trailed off, eyes focused on something in midair past my shoulder. I grasped my courage in both hands and walked towards him - slowly, so as not to alarm him.

Not quite slowly enough. "No!" The shriek stopped me in my tracks. "I know your kind, I know what you'll do to me!"

Deep breaths. In, out. "I'm not going to do anything to you, old boy. I just want to see. In the interest of . . . scientific knowledge." If anything could get through to him, that would. Sure enough, the wild look faded. He did not move as I approached, soft as if I was approaching a wild animal. He flinched as I reached for his arm, but he did not withdraw it. Nor did he fight as I led him over to a chair and sat him down where I could better examine the damage.

It was extensive. I could not be sure what chemicals he had used, whether he had injected them or only painted them into his opened skin. He should be in a hospital - no; as soon as the thought entered my head I knew he would not allow it. Besides, Lord knows where they might send him. Sherlock Holmes was odd, eccentric, bizarre, but he was not insane.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself as I cleaned the wounds with antiseptic and bandaged them neatly. The white linen seemed at odds with the horror that lay beneath it. All the energy seemed to have gone out of my friend. He sat motionless, eyes half closed. He could have been dead if not for the slow rise and fall of his chest. I was loathe to leave him even for a second, but when I had retrieved a sedative from my bag and returned he appeared not to have moved. After that I did not move except to coax broth down his throat and eat what little I could stomach of my own dinner. Every second was an agony of uncertainty, filled with the knowledge that even at this moment my closest companion bar only my wife could be dying. And if he did pass, I would never forgive myself for my role.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to understand without being told. She patted my shoulder gently and murmured words of comfort that I barely registered. How could I accept such kindness, when it was my absence that had caused all this?


	29. Dark (5)

cont. of Dark/Helpless (again, no particular prompt for this one)

Sorry it's so short. I don't know what happened to my wordiness :P Reviews are lovely! Thank you to all who have reviewed and if you haven't (or, heck, even if you have) please do so!

* * *

That night was spent in restless slumber. I woke often to the sound of Holmes retching painfully, each time managing to get him to swallow only a bit of water or broth for what his body had rejected. No matter how often I checked his temperature and pulse I was never reassured, nor further worried. He seemed to be holding steady, albeit a steadily wretched state. I knew I could do nothing unless he grew worse, but still I forced my burning eyes to stay open. The hours inched by in contemplation of my companion's feverish countenance. Sometime around two a.m. he grew still and his breathing evened into the long, slow inhalations of a sleeping man. For a while I watched him, finally peaceful, but soon my will gave in and I dozed off. I had not even bothered to change my clothes or remove my shoes. Yet it was quite possibly the best sleep I have ever had - because I was woken by the sound of my name being called by a weak, but steady, voice.

"Watson?"


	30. Dark (6)

Dark - final installation

* * *

Watson was awake in a heartbeat, leaning over Holmes and praying that what he had heard was not imagined. His hope was not in vain. Holmes's face was pale, his cheeks hollow and eyes dark, but he was awake and coherent. He lifted a weak, bony hand and fumbled for the doctor's. For once, Watson did not feel any discomfort with the display of emotion. He squeezed Holmes's hand tightly in his own, and the two sat listening to their respective ragged breaths. Finally, Watson - reluctant to break their bond but conscious of his medical duties - called Mrs. Hudson for tea and some light repast. Holmes stayed where he was, but chuckled softly when he heard his companion's instructions.

"Always the good doctor, eh?" he rasped. "Good thing I've got you, old fellow. Don't know what I'd do . . . " he trailed off, but Watson knew what he meant to say and it touched him. Holmes was not one to voice his feelings; it meant an immeasurable amount that he was willing to admit just how much he relied on his Boswell and best friend. But it wouldn't do to let Holmes know that. He was, after all, very sick - and besides, Watson had no intention of letting him get off lightly for his antics this time.

Instead the doctor patted his patient's hand warmly and said, "I know, old boy. I know."

The two sat quietly together, breaking their fast on the excellent Mrs. Hudson's cooking with only a minimum of fuss from the lady herself. She was quite happy to busy herself with the both of them. With Holmes an invalid and Watson limp with exhaustion and relief, the self-appointed mother was able to tuck blankets and plump pillows to her heart's content. She did so efficiently and left them to their meal and their comradely silence.

* * *

**Alright, that's it for this arc. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did (or didn't) let me know with REVIEWS! :D**


	31. You Don't Understand

Sherlock Holmes had never been a conventional man. He made it very obvious that he had no intentions whatsoever of becoming one. His acquaintances either resigned themselves to a fate of erratic hours and bizarre cases, or they distanced themselves from him as quickly as possible. Most, rather unsurprisingly, chose the latter course of action. Even in his closest companion, Dr. John Watson, had required a bit of training and quite a few rude awakenings (both literal and figurative) before he finally came around. One could hardly blame him; it was rather hard to accept that one's flatmate is at times a raving lunatic, at times a deep and intriguing thinker, and at times only a vague, indistinguishable shape in a haze of tobacco smoke. But accept it he did, and gradually even learned to appreciate the quirks of the detective's companionship.

And yet, at the heart of it, Dr. Watson was still a British medical man. He was trained rigorously in the school of Stiff Upper Lip and had a degree from the Victorian college of If It Isn't Physical It's Hysteria. A deeply compassionate nature softened the condescension with which most physicians treated their more . . . troubled . . . patients, but his instruction had left him with no room for sympathy with them. Such it was when the first lull came in the flow of Holmes's cases. Doctor and sleuth had only known each other for a few short months, and each was still slightly unaccustomed to the other's odder moods.

Watson opened the door to Baker Street and was greeted by the news, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, that Holmes had not touched food that day and he might very well be ill. The doctor proceeded up the steps to the flat certain that nothing was seriously wrong; it had not taken him long to deduce that his flatmate's eating habits were irregular at best. He found the man in question with his gaunt frame curled up in his favorite armchair. A pipe dangled unlit from one listless hand. On the table was a morocco case, open to reveal a syringe and . . . was that cocaine? Dr. Watson dropped his medical bag in favor of inspecting the substance.

"Holmes, what on earth have you been doing?"

The detective lifted his head slightly, then let it loll to the side as if moving it had been too much effort. "Bored," he mumbled.

Watson gave a snort of reproach. "Bored you might be, old fellow, but that's no reason to go lying about like a sloth and worrying Mrs. Hudson. If I didn't know better I'd say you were one of those malingerers or a hysterical girl!"

For a brief, shocking instant he saw something close to venom in the sharp grey eyes. "You couldn't possibly understand."

* * *

**I feel this requires some explanation, so explanation you shall have. I've done quite a bit of research on Victorian medical practices and they had a tendency to treat anyone with what would now be called a mental illness, problem, or trouble as a total child. Most of them thought the sufferers were making it up for attention or some such. It must have been especially hard for someone like Holmes, whose best excuse is 'boredom'. People just don't believe you when you say you're desperately depressed due to simple boredom. Now, not to get personal, but boredom has led me to do some very stupid things, the worst of which ended in a 1 a.m. ER visit after an attempt to better acquaint myself with the Grim Reaper. I feel I know what I'm talking about when I say, they couldn't possibly understand.**


	32. No Accounting

**I've been doing entirely too much angst recently, so here's a slightly lighter piece.**

* * *

"I'm not doing that."

"Oh come on, Watson. Be a sport. First one to the robin's nest wins!"

"I am not a school boy, Holmes! Scampering about rooftops is all well and good for a case, but it's hardly suitable entertainment for two gentlemen to engage in!"

"Pah!" snorted the detective. "Suitable? Since when did you care about suitable? Come on!"

Dr. Watson glared at his companion. Who smiled innocently back, grey eyes twinkling. Hard as he tried the doctor could not suppress a smile and a twinkle of his own. He pursed his lips, harrumphed, scowled - then kicked off his shoes and grabbed at the nearest window sill.

"What was that about the robin's nest?" he asked with a grin.

His patient, a rather elderly gentleman by the name of Colonel Wellsburn, was thoroughly surprised but not entirely unamused to find his physician and his friend sitting on the roof, dangling their feet over the edge and arguing about who was a rottener egg. There was simply no accounting for medical professionals these days.


	33. Haunted

**This is from Hades Lord of the Dead's December challenge. It also fits perfectly into the Watson's Woes prompt I was going to use: haunted. Enjoy!**

**From Madam'zelleGiry: w****orld war I is heating up, and Watson wants to go back into active duty. Reaction of a character close to him. (Anyone you choose. Holmes, Lestrade, AU Mary... possibilities are endless!)**

* * *

She watched as the boys play-fought in the streets, lighting sparklers and shouting gleeful insults at their new-found enemies. They had no idea of the horror that awaited them, their families, their country. To them war was still a game to be fought and won in the gutter with sticks for swords and pebbles for bullets. It was a mixed blessing, that her own child had not survived to see the ravage this war would bring. Perhaps it was for the best; perhaps, if he had lived, he would not ever have come back home to her.

But it grieved her. And as she watched the veteran stare at these carefree youths through his window she mourned even more deeply. He, too, was thinking of a lost son. Of the thousands upon thousands of lost sons that would be sent home to mothers draped in black and drenched in tears. He was no stranger to war, was Dr. Watson. Maybe that was why he wanted to go back into the army. Well, wanted was not the right word . . . He felt obliged to. As a doctor he had a sworn duty to protect and save where he could; as a soldier, Watson felt bound by duty. In a few short weeks the boys in the street would be boys in a trench, filthy, wet, ill, facing the gut-wrenching wounds and tragedies that only war could bring into such stark focus. They would see things no man could see, and remain whole. Men broken to pieces, men raving mad, men hollow empty husks of their old selves only waiting for the bullet that would end the existence they'd given up long ago. And he, Watson, humble doctor, could perhaps ease their suffering.

No longer could John Watson claim youth as his ally. He was growing old, and though he was fit as any man his age the army had exacting standards. Or at least, they used to. Who knew what this latest crusade would bring? Her doctor might be spared, even against his will. But it mattered not. In England or in France, facing death on the front or facing grief at home, she would watch over him. Mary had never failed her John yet.

* * *

**I kind of picture this phantom Mary always standing over Watson, watching out for him and waiting for the day they can be together again. I know he remarried, but somehow I have a feeling Mary was always his one true love. Or maybe it's 1 in the morning and I'm getting a bit romantic . . . **


	34. Scribblings

**For those who didn't get the memo, all December Challenge posts will now be in my imaginatively named "December Challenge" thread. I will do my best to keep up both, but if I slack off a bit with my updates on this one that's why.**

* * *

A grey-haired, sharp-eyed professor stood at the front of the room, waving his hands about to demonstrate as he lectured. The rows of seats were taken up by equally wooden rows of medical students. Surprisingly, none of them seemed bored - all were alert and scribbling notes avidly. It was the only class for which this could be said. In fact, the only student not paying attention was a rather slim boy in the back. His intelligent hazel eyes were glazed and focused somewhere in the vague direction of his professor's voice; a hand scribbled absently in the margin of his otherwise blank paper. Should one look closely (which no one did) they would find that these scribbles were names: James, Nathan, Gilbert, Alfred, Henry . . . He had put a circle around 'John'. The last name he wrote down was 'Sherlock', and he stared at it as if it was written in a different language.

The professor wound up his speech and the students gathered their books. The boy remained seated.

"Arthur", nudged the boy sitting next to him. "Arthur, class is over. Time to go."

Arthur blinked, shook himself out of his daydream, and hoisted his bag. Before he could leave the classroom, however, the professor's voice rang out. "Mr. Doyle, I should like a moment."

He ducked his head in equal parts acknowledgment and shame. He knew he ought to try harder, but it was so hard to focus. Not because the lectures weren't interesting - in fact, they were _too _interesting. Hardly would he sit down before ideas would start popping into his head left and right, and all attempts at note-taking would fall by the wayside as he tried to capture inspiration.

Dr. Joseph Bell sighed as he surveyed his pupil. "You're a bright boy, Doyle. You just need to apply yourself. Don't waste your time on fruitless scribblings. This is medicine - the future!"

Arthur murmured his assent and hurried away before Bell could start in on one of his tangents. He was a brilliant man, the doctor, and truly fascinating. But like all geniuses, he could go on. And Arthur had writing to do.

* * *

**All writers get plot bunnies, right? Plus Doyle got the inspiration for Holmes, allegedly, from his professor. Which is a thousand times worse - anyone else tried to sketch out a novel while also _not_ failing a midterm? It isn't easy.**


	35. Mistletoe

**My recent lack of updates has more to do with having no inspiration as opposed to having no time. But, I've already written my bit for the December series, so I suppose I shouldn't deny you any longer. *sigh* Here you are :)**

* * *

"Watson! Who allowed these infernal things to be put up?"

"They're Christmas decorations, Holmes, and I imagine Mrs. Hudson put them up. It is December, after all."

"Whatever you call them, they're in my way. And they are appallingly cheerful. I want them taken down!"

"Old boy, I hardly think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate you tearing down all her hard work. Besides, I think they're quaint."

"Quaint, yes. Practical, no! What are we to do with a bundle of holly hanging over the mantle?! Not to mention these fir boughs on the door. They'll fall off with my first angry client, and then she'll expect _me _to put them back up!" The detective looked rather more than appropriately horrified at the notion of contaminating his hands with Christmas spirit.

"You can hardly complain about practical when you keep your tobacco in a _shoe_, Holmes."

"It's a slipper."

"The point is, just because you despise Christmas and all its implications doesn't mean that the rest of us can't have a little fun and jollity in our lives. Oh, look, Mrs. Hudson even put up mistletoe!" Watson was distracted from his lecture by a small bunch of green leaves hanging over the door.

His companion groaned theatrically. "_Mistletoe?!_" Then a fiendish light came into his eyes.

"Watson, what do you say we invite a few of those fangirls in? I'm sure they'd like to wish you a happy Christmas. You could just stand in the door and . . . "

It was Watson's turn to look aghast. "NO, Holmes! Good heavens. I'm married!"

Holmes just chortled.

* * *

**I have to say, I'm with Holmes on this one. My mother has gotten out the Christmas decorations and . . . *shudder* I can already feel my black soul being poisoned with cheery red-and-green ornaments.**


	36. Kitten Problems

"I don't understand this fascination with cats. Everyone appears to think they're adorable. Take Alosha - she can't look at a badly captioned picture of one without going into raptures. The whole world is apparently obsessed with the traits, real and imagined, of these rather unremarkable creatures. They're loud, they always want to be petted, you have to feed them and give them toys or else they'll tear up your socks. They aren't loyal like dogs, and they can't track criminals. I don't see the appeal. Who ever said cats were so wonderful, anyway?" grumbled Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and thwarted newspaper-reader. Gladstone twitched his tail from his perch atop the agony columns and purred.

Watson looked up and chortled. "Cat got your paper, old boy?"

Holmes glared. "Thank you, I can get my paper back anytime I want it." As if to prove this, he reached for Gladstone. The marmalade kitten batted at his hand enthusiastically and he jerked it back, nursing several scratches and his pride. Gladstone purred louder and began to wash his whiskers. The detective scowled darkly and was just muttering what he would do to certain fluffy newspaper-thieves when Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room.

"Mr Holmes! I'm ashamed at you! Can't you see the poor dear is just a baby? You didn't mean to take Mr. Holmes's paper, did you, darling?" she cooed, scratching Gladstone between his ears. The kitten looked, if possible, more smug than ever before.

"That creature is malicious, Watson!" he said when the landlady had gone. "He's doing it on purpose. I wouldn't put it past him to move as soon as I leave, just to spite me!"

"Holmes, you're taking this entirely too far. Gladstone is just a kitten. He's hardly capable of plotting to ruin your day."

Holmes snorted, finished his tea, and marched out. Watson looked at Gladstone. Gladstone meowed, got up, and wandered off to find a more comfortable bed.

* * *

**Cats, man. Gladstone was just too cute NOT to make a recurring character, and that's really my only excuse. Reviews are much appreciated ^_^**


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